


Shoot To Kill

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Wonder Woman (Movies - Jenkins)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, The Maxwell Lord pit, who knows - Freeform, will WW84 ever get released
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27477271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: He’s not kind, generally. Reserved. Ruthless. Driven.But you live for the little softnesses. The second of panic in his gaze when you get out of bed, when you leave him there, naked, vulnerable.
Relationships: Maxwell Lord X Reader, Maxwell Lord x You, Maxwell Lord/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	Shoot To Kill

He’s not kind, generally.

Reserved.

Ruthless.

Driven.

But you live for the little softnesses. The second of panic in his gaze when you get out of bed, when you leave him there, naked, vulnerable.

When you don’t say when you might be back.

The note for you in his loopy scrawl, on the pillow.

The rasp of your name in the melody of that husky-edged accent. When he says more, more. When he begs.

When you see him in those boxy suits and you think about what’s underneath, the long lines of his body, how it bows under and over you. 

You think about how he could take everything from you with a click of his fingers. Make you a footnote in his life.

But he doesn’t, and you think that’s another kind of power. Making you feel loved, but never saying he loves you.

Bringing you over the edge of pleasure, but never seeming truly pleased himself.

Sometimes you see a crack of light in him, a picture you’ve never seen before of him and his son, his eyes crinkled at the edges, soft.

Sometimes he strokes a hand over your cheek just before you fall asleep.

And those things just tighten the noose, don’t they?

Although if you’re honest, you probably could never have escaped anyway, from the first time you saw him, hair swept back, his profile strong in the glow from the ballroom chandelier, his chocolate eyes bottomless, something hard in them. The tuxedo kissed the lines of his legs, drew attention to his broad shoulders and just a lick of softness at his middle.

And he turned to you amid all the swirling dancers, the drinkers and the flirters, and you met his gaze, and for a moment all the noise was sucked from the room.

And here you are, six months later, and every day you think you put your neck further on to the executioner’s block, once inch at a time, and you can’t fall, but one more kind word could be your undoing, one more offer of his arm in the middle of a crowded ballroom, any glimpse of his soft underbelly could do it, and you know one day he’ll strike to kill, and you won’t be able to escape with your heart intact.

But for now, you drape the covers over him as his hair spreads out over the pillow, his face relaxed in sleep.

You take what’s left of your heart with you and you whisper, “See you tomorrow, Maxwell.”

Because you won’t be able to resist.


End file.
